Grayscale
by MissHeinz
Summary: Prison is not the all-singing, all-dancing one from Max's dreams. He manages to get by, but a newcomer is less fortunate, and Max curses his remaining shreds of compassion. Warnings: sentimentality, unrealistic presentation of prison, non-native grammar
1. Chapter 1

Grayscale (part 1)

_Reviews, even single lines, would be greatly appreciated!_

Slowly, Max woke up. The surreal colorful scene of Broadway gradually gave way to the gray on gray angles of his cell. For some blessed time, Max couldn't understand why he found himself suddenly lying on a narrow cot, a scratchy stained blanket rubbing against his stubbled cheek.

Then, realization dawned, and Max, still curled up on his side, brought his hands up to cradle his face.

„A dream. Just an empty dream!", he told no-one in particular, as he rolled onto his back and sighed.

He still was in prison. For the next five years, his home would consist of eight square meters, filled with a double bunk-bed, a rickety table, a three legged stool and a run-down toilet-sink combination. The small hole of a window wasn't really worth mentioning, just like the lopsided small cupboard he kept his spare underpants in.

Max sat up, sending the bed wobbling. After a first try, he had decided that he would forego the upper bunk. Thankfully, he had the cell to his own, at least until the wardens would decide to have some fun and pair him up with one of the burly bullies he had managed to avoid for now more or less during meal times.

One of the first things Max had learned in prison was to keep his head down and his big mouth shut. It didn't hurt that some of the old ladies still kept visiting him from time to time, and more often than not brought him lovely cakes, filled with dollar bills „to keep him buying these cigars he missed so much", as they cooed to him.

In reality, he did use the money for tobacco, only not for the cigars he had mentioned longingly to his former backers, but for cigarettes to ensure the wardens' and other inmates' continued good will.

As he reflected about his dire situation, a sharp knock on his door announced time for getting-up.

Resigned, Max stood up, washed and put on his clothes. There were only some minutes between wake-up and move-it, as he called the routine order to leave his cell and go to the cafeteria for meals, the yard for exercise or, most dreaded, the showers for standing wet and naked amidst violent gangsters, rapists and murderers.

Thankfully, today was Sunday, so this move-it was the only optional one, the chance to go to church, one that Max, although not particularly devout, always took.

No five minutes after that first knock a key rattled and the door to his cell was thrown open. „Move it!", the warden bellowed.

Oh joy, thought Max, it's Dobson-the-Dog. This warden was in a permanent bad mood, shouting all the time, and taking offense both at frowning prisoners as well as happy ones. Max carefully schooled his features into a neutral gaze downwards, as he left his cell and followed the others to the chapel. „Stop studying your feet and look where you're going, you piece of scum", came the prompt respond from Dobson. Max sighed inwardly, and raised his eyes a bit. In front of him, another man joined the shuffling line, Tony, the prison-fence he sometimes bought cigarettes from. Then, some cells forward another one and so forth. From the last door they passed, Frank the Butcher joined the queue. When Max sneaked a look into the cell before it was locked again, he saw a new inmate cowering in a corner, his hands curled protectively around his head and blood on his face and shirt. „Who's this?", he hissed to Tony. „The little mama's boy?", Tony answered, „A fucking communist! Frank was livid they chucked him in with him yesterday. I am surprised he's still breathing. Wanna take a bet when he will kick the bucket? There's a jackpot of twenty packages already!"

"Ah, no, thanks," Max declined, swallowing bile. He might have once urged a crazy man to kill his actors, true, but that had been in a time of despair, and all in all he still considered himself a member of the human race.

Tony shrugged while moving: "Your loss – tomorrow is a pretty safe bet!"

Again, Max sighed inwardly. And to think that the men before and behind him were on their way to the prison chapel.

Admittedly, some of them surely opted for Sunday mass mainly for entertainment – the sermon was more often than not peppered with strange ramblings about the priest's brother-in-law and the organist had a penchant for accompanying the hymns with some jazz-like chords – but a good portion of the Sunday gang seemed to take the thing pretty serious.

Which opened up a whole other can of worms for Max, who would often refer to the Good Lord above in affectionate if somewhat joking terms, that some of the others regarded as offensively disrespectful. After they had bloodied his nose that one Sunday, Max had refrained from joining in the open-pulpit-slot Father O'Connor had inserted into liturgy whenever he hadn't been able to prepare a substantial sermon due to a family wake the night before (which was not as rare as one would think).

Nowadays, Max prayed silently, kneeling in the pew opposite the only, small glass-stained window above the altar. "Oh Lord, dear Lord, please let me survive this week!" was a heartfelt constant, especially after brushes with the more violent of the inmates, as was "Oh Lord, dear Lord, please don't let me throw up again" after the more vile kind of stew they served on Saturdays.

Today, Max found himself muttering a sad "Hail Mary" for Catch-Me-Kiss-Me, who had passed away last Monday and left him a sum of five hundred dollars and a silver-framed photo. When the solicitor's package had arrived on Friday, Max had stowed the money in his sock and put the picture onto the cupboard, feeling a bit teary-eyed despite himself.

Resting his head on his folded hands, he now remembered the last letter he had received from her. "My dear Bialy", she had written, "I am feeling a bit under the weather, so I won't be able to visit this week. The ungrateful schmuck of a son of mine even had me draw up my will, but I have shown him: I will leave everything I own to charity, apart from a small gift for you. It should be enough to keep you in cigars for the rest of your unfortunate state-holiday, but please feel free to use it as your please, should the worst come to pass. Anyway, can't wait to see you again soon" and signed with a crinkled lip-print in dark magenta.

"Not too soon, I hope", Max smiled sadly.

Sitting back before the next hymn, his gaze fell upon Frank, who towered menacingly in the first pew to the right, right across from the pulpit in which a rather nervous looking Father O'Connor was shuffling through his notes about the Good Samaritan who helped the robbed stranger.

The image of the curled-up man in Frank's cell rose up in Max' memory. As much as he tried, he wasn't able to ignore it for long. At the end of mass, he had resigned. That's what you got for keeping a shred of compassion. Wearily, Max glanced heavenwards, muttering "How do they find me?", before he and the others bowed their heads to receive the final blessing.

Hanging a bit back under the pretense of studying the leaflets for the Wednesday-evening catechism-meeting, he waited until most of the men had left the chapel. Then he approached the second warden, an easy-going man named Pulasky.

"Morning, Max!", he was greeted amiably. "Beautiful day, isn't it? Magnificent sunrise!"

Max, whose cell had a window not bigger than a handkerchief, facing north, agreed with a broad smile. Then he cut to the chase: "Listen, Pulasky, I've seen we got a new face about, the guy in Frank's cell."

The warden nodded sadly. "Yeah, I know. But Dobson can't stand commies, so he figured Frank would be the perfect match. Had his fun last night when he took a peek."

Max closed his eyes. Pulasky might not agree with Dobson's idea of fun, but he wouldn't challenge him without reason.

"Now, that guy, he might deserve everything he got, but it seems a bit unfair to Frank, doesn't it", Max reasoned. "having to share his cell with this git. And we all know that an unhappy Frank is bad news for the rest of us. Maybe you could convince Dobson to move the new guy?"

Pulasky shook his head. "Nope, sorry, don't think he will be easily swayed. Couldn't care less for the rest of you, Dobson, right? And what would I have from confronting Dobson apart from a surly colleague?"

Yeah, as friendly as Pulasky was, he wasn't in it for charity. Max turned a bit and took three of the five bills from his sock.

"Maybe these could help you convince the man?"

Pulasky seemed to consider it. "Might need a bit more convincing before I will tackle the problem", he grinned. Max groaned and fished for a fourth bill. "Pretty close now", Pulasky nodded, while keeping his palm open. Frowning, Max grabbed the last of the money and shoved it at the warden.

"You know, for a good Catholic, you need an awful lot of convincing until you agree to help your fellow man.", he growled.

"Now, there!" Pulasky's smile had faded a bit. "You know I am a reasonably man, Max, but everyone's out for themselves. Why should I help a fraud like you who is filthy with old ladies' money without getting something in return? Do you know how much a warden makes?"

Max sagged tiredly. No reason to alienate allies. "I am sorry, Pulasky. You are right. I understand. Sorry. Now do you think you can make Dobson change his mind?"

The warden weighed his head a bit. "Yeah, I guess so. Already had his fun, as I said, and nobody wants to have another dead body in here after that thing with Matt." Tony had told Max about this: Last year, a prisoner named Matt Gally had attacked his cell-mate while under the influence and killed him. The wardens were accused of neglect when it became known that Matt had beaten up the poor guy three times before that. In the end, Matt had been sent to the chair, while the wardens were reprimanded severely.

"Anyway,", Pulasky continued,"not many bunks left, most cells are filled up."

Oh great, so this was where they were heading. "One offers you a little finger and you go for the whole hand, don't you!", Max growled inwardly, glancing at the ceiling.

To Pulasky, he smiled and nodded. "I know what you mean."

The warden smiled back. "I guess we will have to put Bannen into your cell, you're being the most reasonable of the single ones left. You might even get into the good graces of Frank for this."

Max started. "No, please, don't tell him", he said urgently, sitting down next to the warden. Frank thinking he **asked** to be paired up with a boyish looking man he had only seen once would lead Frank to wrong and dangerous assumptions about Max. "In fact, why don't you tell Dobson you want to get back at me for cracking a joke at your cost?"

Pulasky gave Max a long look sideways. "This isn't what Frank might think it is, is it?"

Max was taken aback. This was a rumour he couldn't afford at all costs. "Now listen, you know I don't care for that kind of thing. And I surely don't want to share my cell. It was your idea after all, wasn't it, to put him in with me? As soon as you have any other option for him that doesn't involve his violent death at the hands of a crazy killer, by all means, please go for it!"

The warden looked relieved. "Didn't take you for a fruit, Maxy! Good to know I'm right! Sorry to have ruffled your feathers!", he apologised.

Max grimassed. "Well, as long as that is clear, no offense taken", he conceded.

"Hey, would you lazy bastards haul your backs off the seats and join us, if you please", came a disgruntled shout from the corridor.

Dobson again.

Sharing a long-suffering look, the two men stood up and left the chapel.


	2. Chapter 2

_This is my first Producers-fic._

_As you might have deduced from the text, English is not my native language. A spell-checker can only do so much, so please excuse the mistakes it didn't catch (or even better, point them out and I will try to correct them)._

_I chose the adult rating because I don't know yet what level of profanity or violence I will use later on; I don't think I will veer into graphic descriptions of violence or sex, but just to be on the safe side, I will keep this rating._

_Last but not least, as most fanfic writers, I would greatly appreciate feedback. Even if you just glanced at the story, I'd be happy to hear from you. Detailed feedback would be great, but even a line "Read it, was good/okay/awful" would do._

_Thanks in advance._

_And now back to Max._

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><p><strong>Grayscale (part 2)<strong>

After dinner (dry beef patties between dry buns and lots of ketchup), Max returned to his cell to find it already occupied. "That's for making fun of your betters", Dobson muttered when Max, miming surprise and annoyance, looked around, before shoving the prisoner through the door and throwing it close with a bang.

The other man had stood up tensely, if somewhat shaky. His left eye was swollen shut, two cuts on his front-head and chin had had stitches, the rest of the face was pale and covered in bruises.

Max sighed and offered his hand.

"Max Bialystock, pleased to meet you!"

His new cellmate still looked tense, but took the hand and shook it. "Neil Bannen", he offered, "likewise."

Max saw that the newcomer had already made the upper bunk bed and put his meager belongings on it.

"If you want, you can have half of the cupboard for that", he pointed at the small bundle. "And you can call me Max."

"Thank you," the young man responded, a tentative smile on his lips, "please call me Neil!".

At least he doesn't clutch a blanket, Max thought ruefully – Neil did remind him a little of Leo, although he seemed even a bit more of a kid than Leo had. Well, returning to join Max before court had seemed a rather adult, if sentimental move of Leo. Not his fault the plane was late and he missed the date. Had Max known of Leo's decision beforehand, he would have urged him to stay away – no reason for both of them to be in jail, was there? But Leo being Leo, Bloom had given himself up nevertheless and had been sent to (a different) jail for 10 month (the other judge had been quite generous in counting Leo turning himself in) When he got the letter in which Leo explained everything, Max had actually started to tear up a little. Leo was his friend, after all. It had helped Max through some of the rougher days in here to know that he wasn't alone in the world. In his heart of hearts, he would have liked to have Leo in here with him to keep him company. But maybe Neil would do, as well. Well, not as well, but good enough, Max mused.

"So, what are you in for?", he asked Neil jovially.

Neil's small smile died away.

"I'd rather not say", he muttered and turned away.

Max sighed. "Look, I'm here because I tried to pull a fast one on the IRS, basically. Frank – that's the guy that gave you that shiner – he's here because he made mince-meat from the guy who shtupped his sister. We get all sorts here, but I would like to know in advance if I have to share my cell with an axe-murderer or an arsonist. And anyway, the wardens know and soon enough, the others will know as well."

Neil didn't answer for a while, instead his lips had started to quiver and his eyes become suspiciously shiny.

Max tried again. "The others called you a communist. If that's it, I couldn't care less. You know, I used to work in show-business – every other play is an author's political tract. I would say some of my best friends are communists, but then again I only have one friend, and he isn't courageous enough for that", he joked, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

Neil turned around again, still silent. He had actually started to cry, Max realised with a start. He moved over to the younger man and made him sit on the stool. Then he rummaged in his cupboard and produced a small bottle labeled "mouthwash", which was filled with an amber liquid.

"Here, on the house. Finest Scotch you can get in here." He presented the bottle to Neil, who took it hesitantly. After a long pause, the younger man took a long swig, closing his eyes as he swallowed the mouthful.

"Easy on the goods", Max growled under his breath, prying the bottle from the man's hand, before taking a hefty gulp himself. With a shudder, he downed the stuff and corked the bottle.

Neil coughed once or twice and shuddered, then took a deep breath.

"Last month, I came home one Friday evening. When I opened the door, I found … a friend of mine … lying … in his blood … on the floor. The police arrived only a couple of minutes later. I was found guilty of … of murder – but I didn't do it!"

He had spoken in a whisper full of grief, apart from the last, rather desperate outburst. Max considered what Neil had said – and how he had said it. Oh dear. Hopefully Frank and the others wouldn't catch onto anytime soon.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he finally uttered soberly.

The younger man swallowed forcibly a couple of time, then uttered a small "Thank you", looking down again.

They stayed silent for the rest of the evening, apart from some awkward tries at smalltalk from Max and some polite mutterings while giving the other one some privacy when using the facilities.

When he finally lay on his bunk, the cot above him sagging with Neil's weight, Max sighed deeply – Neil radiated a heart-wrenching sadness that had permeated even the cheeriest thoughts Max had been able to think of. "And to think I could be in Rio now!", he finally groaned softly into the darkness, closing his eyes and hoping for a dream of more pleasant times.

The next morning, Neil was already up, when Max came to. Fully dressed, the younger man sat at the table, studying something in front of him Max couldn't see.

Max took the chance to get a good look at his cellmate:

Rather small, not very thin but a bit skinnier than Leo. Envy-inducing full, curly hair of a nondescript brown color.

Drawing shuddering breaths, not quite sobbing but close.

Hunched over, some tension still visible, but less then yesterday. "The perfect man for the role of the simple but loyal side-kick", Max thought. Too bad this isn't a movie: He could happily tag along, getting some jokes and the sympathy of the audience, and I would be the hero, save the day and get the girl."

With a yawn, he stretched. Neil started and rubbed his eyes for a couple of seconds. Then he turned around and greeted him with the same anxious smile and a small wave of his hand.

"Morning", Max croaked while sitting up. "Had a good night?"

Neil shrugged timidly: "Given the circumstances, yes."

Max had to stop himself from actually patting Neil on the shoulder: "Don't worry. The first week was really bad for me, too. I cried myself to sleep most nights. You're keeping up formidably, compared with that and considering what has happened." He gestured towards Neil's injuries, but both heard the other references as well.

"Thanks -." Neil left it at that. For some minutes, both said nothing.

"I should probably warn you about the stew on Saturday," Max began. "And obviously, about the showers. The water's either icy or scalding, and … well, sometimes a guy gets a bit … excited, and if you're out of luck, he might want you to help him with that. If it's someone not much bigger than yourself, you can usually just get angry and shout abuse at him. If they're much bigger... well, a hand, you can wash, right?" Max hurried on, seeing that Neil had grown pale. "Dobson, now he is not a very nice man. Try to avoid him. Pulasky is better, reasonable guy, most of the times. As is the doctor, but you have met him already, right?"

Neil nodded.

Max went through the rest of the prison personal quickly – most of them he had only encountered two or three times.

"If you have a chance, try to stay on the good side of Mickey Allen, he's the lunch guy. Every Tuesday and Friday, you are allowed one hour in the library, and if the wardens like you, they might even let you have a book in here once in a while. Do you have anyone outside who could bring you stuff?"

Neil considered this. "Maybe my aunt Gertie. I haven't seen her since the trial, though."

Max felt his sympathy well up again. His sentence was bad, but at least he had visitors all the time. "I could borrow you some little old ladies. Mind you, they need to be charmed all the time, but they are nice enough in their way, and they are more than happy to bake a book into a cake.", he offered half-seriously.

Neil looked a bit confused.

Max opened his mouth to explain, but was interrupted by the wake-up-knock on the door.

"We have about five minutes, then it's move-it", he explained, as he busied himself with his morning toilet.

As soon as he was finished, the door was thrown open. "Move it, breakfast!", came the order (neither Dobson nor Pulasky this time, but an elderly warden named Hillborrow).

Max and Neil joined the line shuffling towards the cafeteria.

"Hey, 'Boris', Frank sends his regards!", Tony cackled, as he saw them. To Max, he added, "Odds have changed a bit, what with he wardens present at yard time, but you can still join!"

Max smiled and thanked him, but declined: "Might be a bit suspicious now, if I win, wouldn't it?" Tony scratched his head, as he thought about it. After some deliberation, he agreed. "But Frank might have a go, now that he's lost his close company.", he added happily.

In the cafeteria, some heads turned, when Neil entered, but apart from some jeers, nothing much happened. Max managed to get a good apple with his bread and bologna.

Even the coffee didn't seem so bad, he mused, as he sipped from the chipped mug.

Neil had asked for tea, so now he was nursing a glass of warm water. "It's not exactly the Waldorf-Astoria, buddy", a scrawny guy next to them had commented, when the man behind the counter had handed him the clear liquid with a smirk. Neil – wisely, though Max – had only lowered his gaze and followed Max to a table near the door.

"So, tell me a bit more about you!", Max ventured, taking a unenthusiastic bite of his sandwich.

Neil shrugged slightly. "There is hardly anything interesting about me."

"Come on! Where have you been born? What do you for a living, that kind of thing!" Seizing the chance for some small talk during breakfast, Max wasn't to give in easily. Especially if it helped him to ignore the rubbery taste of the unnatural pink slice of meat he tried to eat.

Neil scrutinized his tablet. "I was born in Chicago. My parents moved to New Jersey when I left school. I am... was a bank clerk for Weatherstone & May, in the branch on 10th Avenue." Weatherstone & May on 10th? Max was sure that he had cashed some checks there sometime, but he couldn't remember Neil from then. On the other hand, Neil was exactly the sort of clerk you wouldn't remember.

Neil kept talking: "Mr. Garner – my boss – even said I could become the branch manager one day... but I guess that's not gonna happen now."

With a sigh, Neil sipped his water, only to make a disgusted face immediately. "I think there might be something wrong with the tap", he stated with a puzzled frown.

"I think this might not necessarily be tap-water, my friend", Max answered, having witnessed some of the kitchen crew's antics, and gently pried the glass from Neil's hands. "For the future, I would suggest to take coffee in here", he muttered while he discretely emptied the glass into one of the drains on the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Grayscale (part 3)

_As I mentioned, this is my first Producers-fic and it's one of my first fan-fictions at all. I would greatly appreciate feedback. A single line will do. Of course, detailed review would be even better._

_And now back to the story._

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><p>Another bite of the hopeless sandwich. "Now, what about this communist nonsense? A bank clerk a disciple of Marx?", he added conversationally.<p>

Neil shrugged. "I have no idea why they would think me a commie. Gaspar, yeah, but me?"

"Who is Gaspar?", Max interrupted.

Neil's features froze for a moment and he looked into Max' eyes directly for some seconds. Then he let his gaze drop once again and mumbled: "My friend, the one who … died."

Max quickly looked around. No-one looking their way. Good.

"Look", he whispered, "you're not very obvious, but in here, for God's sake, try as hard as you can not to show how much he meant to you. It's literally vital!"

Neil's eyes widened and he started to blush. "I don't know what...what you are talking about", he stammered.

Max rolled his eyes. "Later!", he stated.

"So, you're not a communist. Right. And you didn't do it. Well, nobody in here committed the crime they're here for, if you ask them."

"But you said you did try to evade tax.."

"Yes, yes, alright, everyone apart from me. You are a good listener. So am I, boy, so am I. And therefor, pray tell me: Why did the police arrive just after you walked in the door?" Max was genuinely intrigued by this bit. Whoever could have wanted to frame that harmless little git?

Now Neil bit his lip. "You know, that's what the prosecution has asked as well."

"The prosecution?", Max frowned. "What about your lawyer?"

Another shrug. "Public defender, had sometimes trouble remembering my name."

"Oh for heaven's sake!", Max roared, attracting the attention of several of the prisoners around them. Quickly, he bellowed: "At least close your mouth while chewing, you disgusting piece of filth!"

Neil opened his mouth, but Max beat him to the punch by getting up, snatching his tablet and moving to another table.

"Disgusting!", he stage-muttered again, while he sat down with his back to Neil, hoping he would get the clue.

Thankfully, the rest of breakfast was uneventful, apart from Frank spitting in Neil's general direction when they finally were marched back to their cells.

After the door had clunked shut, Max sat down heavily on his bed. Neil had put the stool into the corner and now tensely perched on it, hugging himself. When he caught Max looking at him, he stated "I understand." While looking like a kicked puppy.

Oh Lord! Max raised his eyebrows tiredly: "Do you?"

"You had to distance yourself from me. Otherwise people would think you are fine with my kind." Neil answered flatly, not meeting Max' eyes.

"True. But I AM fine with it. I'm a Broadway producer, for heaven's sake! Half of all the actors are 'of your kind', as you put it, not to mention the majority of the bachelor patrons of musical theater..." Neil looked up with a puzzled expression smoothing his face. Max sighed.

"As I said, you are pretty subtle, thank God. But some of these guys in here are always on the look-out for weaknesses. They will assume the worst - well, what they perceive to be the worst - as soon as you even seem a bit vague on that front. So better start mentioning your former girl-friend or suchlike from time to time."

"I once had a girlfriend!" Neil protested.

Max scoffed. "I couldn't care less! Just mention her. And try not to mention Gaspar to anybody else. What kind of name is that, anyway? Mexican?"

"Portugese." Neil corrected him softly. "He was born in Brasil." "Brasil!", whined Max.

Neil nodded. "He came here because he wanted to study under Balanchine."

"Name rings a bell. Marxist professor, is he?"

Neil gasped. "No, Max! George Balanchine is one of the most important choreographers of our time and one of the founders of the School of American Ballet!"

"Oh, right, of course," Max said magnanimously. Then he pressed a hand to his face and moaned to himself: "A ballet dancer! It couldn't have been a cab driver or a plumber or possibly an jet pilot in those files, no, it must be ballet." To Neil, he said: "Maybe you don't want to mention ballet, as well."

Neil glared at him like a bunny at a tiger. "I'm not a child. I haven't mentioned this to anyone before. But after what you said about being fine, I thought I could."

Max considered this. Neil was right, of course. While showbiz was usually a tolerant scene, not batting an eyelid even at the more flamboyant characters, the rest of society would have reacted badly to Neil's preferences, had they caught on. If he had managed to get a job at Weatherstone & May – and keep it – he must have been able to kept his private life private.

"I'm sorry", Max began, "I didn't realise that. It must have been hard."

The younger man nodded, swallowing a couple of times.

"I wasn't allowed to come to the funeral. After eight years. 'Just family'."

Max sagged. "They weren't able to keep Carmen from Roger's side even for Roger's grannie's birthday. To shun Carmen from Roger's funeral – inconceivable! It would be a scandal!"

Neil frowned: "The family can't stand her?"

"Him", Max corrected quietly. "Carmen Ghia is a man. I have no idea how he came by this name. After all, it's always Roger wearing the dresses!"

When Neil blinked in surprise, he added: "Only for costume parties, as far as I know. And Roger's family has accepted – had to, a long time ago - that he is always accompanied by his 'common-law assistant', as Carmen calls himself. Anyway, Gaspar was a ballet dancer, you said?"

His cellmate nodded. "We first met in a café I went to for lunch. Gaspar had just arrived in New York and was staying in a god-awful bed-and-breakfast. We started to chat, and got on just fine. He was friendly. I liked him. When I saw him again a couple of days later, still looking for a flat, I told him he could sleep on my couch while searching for permanent accommodation. It might seem a bit forward, but it was perfectly innocent! I didn't even know that I liked men back then!"

"I can relate, trust me!", Max sighed. His first meeting with Mrs. Windermann had started out perfectly innocent as well. For the first fifteen minutes. Until she had begun sliding her foot up his leg under the table and Max had been reduced to exasperated gasps, trying frantically not to displease his potential financier while at the same time wiggling surreptitiously to stop too intimate a contact with said foot.

Neil had blushed a little. "Two month later, he still was sleeping on the couch. One night, though, he had come home from auditioning for 'Cinderella'. He had done just fine, he told me, but the prima-ballerina of the ensemble, a Mademoiselle Safrankova, didn't like his face. She said he looked too clever for the prince, so he was rejected. Took it real hard. I tried to cheer him up, we had a couple of beers, and then one thing led to another..."

"I certainly know that tale", exhaled Max. "Only instead of beer it was usually Crème de Menthe..." On one memorable occasion though, a lady had tried to relax the atmosphere, as she put it, by copious amounts of brandy butter. She then had insisted on playing "The matronly cook and the clumsy scullion". After a while of fooling around, Max had slipped on a bit of soft butter and thrown out his back. He couldn't remember what they had told her doctor, who gave Max some very appreciated pain medication, but it must have been a pretty wild tale, explaining Max's presence in the bedroom, his state of undress and the fragrant lumps of dairy product all over the place.

"Creme de Menthe?", Neil asked incediously.

"Never mind that," Max glossed over it, "tell me more about Gaspar. Did he have any enemies?" Max had heard about mind-boggling rivalry among dancers, but he had never thought they went so far as to kill each other.

"I don't know. I don't think so. Gaspar always told me everything", Neil stated with a hint of pride.

Max narrowed his eyes. "Everything? Doubt it. No relationship can withstand perfect honesty."

Neil protested: "He did tell me everything. He even told me about his affair! Why would he tell me that and not mention enemies?"

Max looked up: "He confessed to cheating?"

"Well, yes," Neil conceded, "after I saw him with that guy. But he didn't have to. I had assumed it was just a hug between friends, you know."

"But it was a … special friend."

Neil shrugged. "Gaspar said the guy had asked him for an autograph one night, and asked him out for a drink a day later, and... Well, it was only a fling, nothing important to him."

"What about the other guy? Heartbroken when Gaspar broke up with him? Angry? Maybe a crime of jealousy?"

"But wouldn't he have tried to kill me, then?", Neil asked.

Max rolled his eyes. "You obviously never have been caught kissing someone else in the park. Your lover tends to go after you, not your fling, and chances are they will join forces. I still have a scar." One of his more hot-blooded acquaintances had found him straddled by Come-Hither on broad daylight in Central Park. Outraged, she had started shouting abuse. After Come-Hither had finally adjusted her hearing-aid and understood what the other lady was going on about, she had slapped him hard and kneed him in the groin, for good measure. Max, now doubled over on his knees, had tried to appease the two furies, but to no avail. In the end, in a final burst of anger, one of them had flung the first thing she could find in her handbag at his head. Unfortunately, this had been a pink piggy-bank she wanted to give her great-grand-son for his 10th birthday. The impact had knocked Max unconscious and left a small scar just above his hair line.

Absent-mindedly, he touched it now.

"The guy didn't look very violent to me," Neil said doubtinly, "but I guess you never know."

"What happened to him?"

"No idea. I think I might have seen his face in the newspaper once or twice, but I can't remember where."

Brilliant. "And his name?"

Neil shrugged again. "I think Gaspar called him Thomas, but apart from that – sorry."

Max asked him for some more details. Somewhere in his mind, he had begun to develop a plan – well, to be honest, more of a movie plot, his reason told him, but Max brushed this aside: Neil's case would have to be re-investigated! And in the end, Max would save the day!


End file.
